


Little Soldier

by JAKishu



Series: Master´s creation [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Big Brother Mycroft, Brainwashing, Caring Mycroft, Child Abuse, Consulting Criminal, Dark Sherlock, Fear, Kid Sherlock, Kidnapping, Mind Control, Multi, Punishment, Stockholm Syndrome, Trauma, helping john, master - Freeform, soldier John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-15 12:09:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10556088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JAKishu/pseuds/JAKishu
Summary: Moriarty wants a protégé, someone he can form and make into what he wants. So he gets himself one. A four-year old genius child with the name Sherlock Holmes is his first choice.





	1. The boy goes missing

With his four years Sherlock was a highly intelligent child. A genius like his brother. They were often compared to each other but Sherlock didn't mind. He loved his brother and his parents. His home was a place filled with love and he couldn't imagine ever leaving it.

He was even a bit famous as he was already able to speak five different languages fluently, play the violin better than some who had practiced for a decade and he was at the educational level of a secondary school pupil. You could say young Sherlock was using his genius and talent extensively. Currently he was fascinated by the 'magic' behind chemistry. Like he put it. But he was still a child and looking forward to a childhood full of wonders, and discovering the world.

But this was not to be his destiny. Someone else took this choice from him. While on a trip to the city with his family, little Sherlock Holmes vanished. Police and public looked everywhere for months until there were no more clues.

Sherlock Holmes, four years old, was declared 'presumed dead'.

* * *

Sherlock was in darkness. It was pitch black and despite his strong will not to show any weakness he could feel small tears running down his cheeks. It was okay to cry, no one would be able to see it in the dark room anyway. He just hopes that someone would come and save him. He wanted to go back to his brother. Why had he let go of his hand? Of course the bookstore had been interesting with so many book for him to read but the place was crowded and Mycroft had told him not to run off, or he would get lost. And he got lost. 'Lost means being in a place and not knowing where this place is or how you can get back to where you came from.' He remembered Mycroft explaining to him.

The thing that really concerned Sherlock was not the dark room or being lost and alone it was the fact that he couldn't remember how he had gotten here. One moment he had been reading a book about chemistry the next he was here. He was missing at least a few hours.

His concentration was losing its strength with time owing to the lack of input to his working brain. He had already touched everything he could reach with his hands. He had found a door with a lock only. There was only a small gap between door and frame, nothing else. No place where to start a break out. Sherlock sat in the corner furthest from the door.

* * *

That's where he fell asleep and was woken by the noise of an opening door. Waiting for what would happen, Sherlock staid exactly where he was not uttering any sound and making himself as small as possible. As nothing happened and no sound could be heard from outside his small room Sherlock stood up. His eyes had gotten used to the light again, thanks to what was coming through the door.

Stepping out was like entering a new world. The place looked rustic; the walls seemed to be made of clay and the windows where without glass. Sherlock's eyes found the only other living being in the room, an adult younger than his parents but older than his cousin who was a college student. The man was watching him, only watching, which Sherlock found unsettling.

"Hello Sherlock, nice to meet you. I was looking for you everywhere." The stranger was the first one who had spoken. His voice had an Irish accent. Sherlock couldn't imagine what the man wanted for an answer so he said nothing.

"My name is James Moriarty and you will call me Master or Sir from now on. Understand?" Sherlock though that not talking now was not a good idea as the man seemed to expect an answer from him.

"Why should I?" Sherlock was not as frightened as a child or anyone in that situation should be. He was just himself, cheeky. But his question was also full of curiosity. Who was this man who thought he could do with Sherlock what he wanted?

The answer to his question came fast. The stranger's hand slapped him hard onto his face. Hard enough to throw him to the ground. With the hot pain on his face also the tears came back to Sherlock's shame (Sherlock was a proud child).

"I think that will be enough of an answer for the beginning. I won't allow this kind of behavior. You belong to me now. You are mine and it is alone my decision if you will enjoy your life or have a hard time. So next time think about what you say and how you do it. Do you understand?"

Sherlock, still sitting on the floor, nodded. He had never been treated like that; violence was nothing his parents used when discipline was asked for.  

"Good. I am offering you something special here. You will become my student and I will make you into something great. Believe me, when I'm finished with you, you will be perfect for the job I'm thinking of giving you." The man with the Irish accent smiled. It was a smile that made Sherlock's tummy hurt. He was in danger and he felt there wouldn't be any help coming for him soon.


	2. The boy learns the rules to survive

Sherlock came to the conclusion it was safer for him to behave and play along with his 'Master'. There would be an opening in the tight security around him and he would be able to escape. Waiting for help wouldn't change his situation and he thought no one would come. So he had to find a way on his own.

After the horrible first meeting with the master they had both been collected by a car. Sherlock had climbed in without fighting. The pain wasn't worth it. There was no place he could run to right now.

During the car ride he kept as much space as possible between himself and his kidnapper. Sherlock stared out of the window trying to locate his current whereabouts. But that was not a place Sherlock had ever visited, seen in a book or on TV. There was actually nothing to be seen except the wide dessert and a few mountains in the distance.

"Listen up, Sherlock. I'm glad you learned your lesson about obedience already, so we can skip that part of your studying but remember that if you misbehave in future there will be serious punishments." The voice of his master brought Sherlock's attention back to the inside of the car.

"Today we will start your training. I have already explained to you that I will make you into something great but for this you need a certain amount of training." Sherlock swallowed. That didn't sound good.

"You will get physical training; a master of the martial arts will teach you how to use your body. You will get lessons like in school, a bit more specific and focusing on the important things for life. I have a few selected people who will teach your mind in economics, politics, history, science and languages. And it is my pleasure to teach your soul. I will give you everything but first I will also take everything. I will break you so that you can become my perfect creation." Sherlock stared at the mad man and was now really scared.

"Do you understand what your life will be like for the next years?" A dangerous spark appeared in his master's eyes.

"Yes." Sherlock answered quickly. His master's eyes got even madder.

"Yes, Master." Came out of Sherlock's mouth quickly. A punishment now wouldn't be good. He didn't want to break even if that was his Master's goal. Break and rebuild.

"Good." The rest of the journey went by in silence and Sherlock was very thankful for that.

* * *

Three months along in the residence at his master's home Sherlock was sure of a few things.

First was to endure his physical training and the studying with the professors like Sherlock had to call the teachers. He also found that these two things were the easiest to bear. His trainer was nice to him. Always pushing him to his limits and further but nice. The professors were all different, intelligent and most of them brilliant in their area but they didn't hurt him. This was nice too.

The things his Master taught him were different and just plainly wrong and Sherlock slowly understood where it would lead him to.

The first thing he made Sherlock do (and Sherlock did it, afraid of punishment) was to kill a dog. It was a stray they had picked up somewhere on the road. Master lead them (Sherlock and the dog) into a room, small and cold.

"Only one of you will leave this room alive. Don't disappoint me." He threw a knife on the ground and locked the door behind him. Sherlock was left alone with the dog and the knife.

Sherlock sat in one corner, pulling his knees up to his chest and hugging them. What he had to do was clear. Kill the dog or die, either eaten by it or starving. The dog sniffed around in the room coming closer to Sherlock, probably looking for contact with the only other living being.

This was so wrong and Sherlock knew it. Killing was wrong. His mother had explained it to him. 'You shouldn't hurt people or animals. They feel the same pain as you do.' But he had promised himself to survive and go back home. If he died here in this room he would never see his family again. He started to cry at that thought.

Sherlock waited. Maybe Master would get him out before the dog would eat him. He was thirsty and he was cold. But with every passing hour he knew the door would only open once only one breathing being remained.

He looked over to the dog that lay at his side of the room, eyes half closed. Sherlock had pushed him away as he had tried to cuddle with him. It would be hard enough to do this without starting to like that dog.

Sherlock got up, after over a day without food and water, with not enough sleep and the constant presence of panic and fear, his body was weak. His legs were shaking a bit as he walked over to the knife and picked it up.

"I'm sorry I have to do this. You can hate me if you want but I will do everything to survive and go back home." Starting to talk Sherlock lifted his eyes up from the knife and looked at the dog. He walked over to him, knelt down and rubbed the dirty fur.

Sherlock had no idea how to do it. He didn't want to hurt the dog, it had to be painless and that meant fast. He thought about the fastest way to kill someone.

Stabbing the dog in the heart could work but for that he had to aim and hit it perfectly. Sherlock wasn't sure he would be able to do that. He could knock it out and then do it. But he wasn't strong enough to hit the dog with enough force on the head. Strangulation would take too much time and again he wasn't strong enough. The last thing that was left, due to the lack of poison or other weapons, was cutting the dog's throat. Swallowing hart he realized that was the reason Master had given him the knife.

During his thinking process Sherlock's hand never left the dog's head. The dog had relaxed under the caring touch but also felt that Sherlock had made a decision.

Sherlock closed his arms around the dog hugging him, in one hand the knife. "Please forgive me." Sherlock pulled his arm back to his body slicing open the dog's throat with all the power he had and jumped back.

The dog made a painful noise, howling and growling at Sherlock who fled into the furthest corner of the room. The fur on the chest was not brown anymore. It now had a dirty dark brown/red color and the blood spilled on the ground building red puddles. The dog was definitive in pain and Sherlock cried while crouching down on the ground.

* * *

The dog didn't attack the child; Moriarty intervened before that could happen. Watching the whole thing he smiled to himself. The child had found out the best way to kill the animal without pain. A bit sloppy in the realization but he could learn better. Proud of his new toy and hopefully on day his future right hand he walked down the hall to get his protégé out of the room.

The child was in shock but it stood up and followed his master who pulled him by his hand. The child's eyes, red from crying were fixed on the dog until they left the room. It would be a few hard years of work but it was still early days and the child would learn soon to forget his previous life and become the man Moriarty had in mind.

* * *

Sherlock's hand was pulled and his body followed it. Master led him to a new room; he saw the locks at the door. Another prison cell for him. Master threw him into the room.

"This is your new room, if you behave, do what I tell you to do and learn you lessons, then you can stay. If not, there will be consequences you won't like. Starting with the loss of your room and having to sleep outside chained to the ground. Think about what is better. The nights in the dessert are cold and dangerous creatures come out of their hiding spots." Sherlock looked around his new room. It had a bed, a desk with chair, a wardrobe, which he could see was filled with clothes, and a bookshelf filled with books.

Sherlock looked back at Master and saw the same look on his face as before. He had already understood what that meant. "Thank you for my room, Master, I will behave."

"Good. On your desk is a plan for your days with instructions as to what to wear and what to bring. Your food will be brought to you to your room for the next weeks until I can be sure you won't disturb a meal. You can rest now." With that Sherlock was left alone; the noise of the lock was loud in the silence of the room.

* * *

And with that Sherlock's days of training and lessons began.

First thing in the morning, someone would bring him breakfast and, after having experienced once what happened when not eating it all, his plates would now find their way back into the kitchen empty.

Next was the training with his Sensei: two hours of running, jumping, climbing, swimming, diving and fighting. He learned more than one way to fight and kill with his hands. It was exhausting but kept him from thinking too much about his situation.

After that he got his lessons with the Professors. Endless talking and listening about topics Sherlock found partly interesting and fascinating and partly boring and rubbish. Six to eight hours a day only interrupted by a quick lunch alone in his study room.

In the late afternoon or evening Master would call him. They were always alone during their time. The topics were strange and difficult and disgusting sometimes. For example Sherlock had to do an autopsy on a dead man. Then Master would teach him everything about poison, where to find it, how to produce and the best way to use it. Another day there was again the killing of an innocent animal, every few weeks, and Sherlock was told to get creative and better at killing or a punishment would follow. He learned a million different ways to kill people, one or many at once. How to cover it up as suicide or send a message to someone. He learned how to hurt someone without killing. Interrogation techniques, code cracking, hacking and handling explosions which meant building bombs. Sherlock would also learn how to handle weapons of all kinds but that would come at a later stage.

Some lessons took until late into the night and Sherlock would fall asleep the second he was dismissed. He would sleep until the next morning and the cycle would start again. His days went on and on without a break or a free day for weeks and months until Sherlock just forgot to count the days, forgot to look for a way out and slowly lost the memory of his family and home. He just tried to please his Master and his Sensei and the Professors; he tried his best every day to make them proud of him.

* * *

If Sherlock had known what the Stockholm syndrome was he might have understood what happened to him but he had never heard of it and now he didn't feel like he was a prisoner of a victim anymore. He was Master's protégé. Always doing what he was told and trying his best to become a criminal mastermind himself to make Master proud.

 


	3. The boy feels guilt for the last time

Sherlock walked down the hall to meet with Master for dinner. His days of practice were long over and his teachers were gone, he had surpassed them in knowledge years ago. He still had his Sensei who trained him every morning, but the days when his door would be locked or he got punished were already forgotten. Sherlock couldn't remember another life before for this one.

Sherlock with his fifteen years had become Moriarty's right hand. He was part of business meetings and his opinion or suggestion would always be taken seriously. He was a rightful part of Master's organization. Business partners had been at first suspicious but Sherlock had made himself useful and indispensable. Master was proud. And that was everything Sherlock needed because that was accompanied by respect and it lead to more freedom allowing Sherlock could work on his own little projects. Nearly all of Master's people respected him, the new ones always needed a bit of encouragement but when Sherlock was done with them he had theirs too.

He was used to fight his own fights; in his world there was no place for the weak. Weakness was something which always needed to be destroyed. The weak were the ones on the losing side and Sherlock was not weak, he was strong and would survive.

"Good evening, Master." Sherlock said as he entered the dining room, sitting down next to Master and starting to eat.

"Hello darling, tell me, did you read the newspaper this morning?" In Master's eyes there was nothing dangerous or suspicious. Conclusion: it was safe to answer.

"Yes, I did." He replied, not sure where this conversation would lead to.

"Oh I thought you would have told me about your little successful terror attack. The one you were allowed to plan alone with the group leader of that local gang." Sherlock remembered the article, the body count and the general fear that the text was filled with.

"Oh, it was nothing special; I'm surprised that moron was able to follow my instructions without ruining the whole plan." Sherlock kept his head and eyes down on his food; continuing to eat like was expected of him.

"It was nice work. You should be proud of yourself. You know you can tell me things like this. We can talk about the pros and cons, about what worked well and what didn't, maybe find a way to do it better the next time. You will never stop learning." Sherlock looked up and was only met with a smile filled with parental proudness. Master was his family, his father figure, sometimes the much needed big brother he would go to for advice.

"Thank you, Master." Sherlock's eyes went back to his plate.

"Would you like to visit the scene and make yourself a picture of your work? I have to travel to the city anyway. We can go together." There was no doubt as to what kind of answer Master expected and after years of practice Sherlock could survive any kind of conversation by finding out what needed to be said or was better not said at all. Except he wasn't perfect; sometimes he would make a mistake or not meet up to his Master's high standards.

"Yes, please I would love to."

"We will leave after dinner, get ready." Sherlock ate his food until his plate was empty, excused himself and left the room. Getting ready to visit the place of a tragedy he had constructed.

* * *

Sherlock looked out of the window of their car. Master next to him was reading some documents about the deal he planned to do. He saw the horror and fear, the sadness in the faces of the passing people. The heart of this city had been destroyed and with it the will and hope of the people.

The group leader had come to Master for help in planning to crush the infrastructure in order to lay the fundaments for his planned rebellion. But it was not Master who had wiped out this little piece of a city, no it was Sherlock who with all his knowledge and abilities had built a plan and given it to the man. He knew it would kill people; he knew he would destroy an important piece of culture and destroy something people believed in. But he didn't care, shouldn't care.

"You have to walk the last meters; I will be back in half an hour. Be here on time. I don't like to wait." As if Sherlock could forget the one time he had been too late. Master had let him walk forty kilometers through the dessert to their home without water. If Sherlock had given up on the way there would have been no one to come for him.

"Yes, Master." Sherlock got out and smiled at his Master like expected.

* * *

If Sherlock had been given the option, he would never walk down to the scene of his work. But there was no choice for him. Master would punish him if he stayed. He thanked who ever made had made such a short time necessary. He wouldn't be able to stay longer than a few minutes but he has to observe enough so that Master would be satisfied with his description of it.

His body felt heavy and Sherlock who was used to that feeling pushed back the nausea. This time it was all his work, no Master who had had the last say in it. He was responsible for the deaths and he hated it. He hated every time he had to choose a way to kill people, to destroy lives and futures. It made him sick. He was not like Master; he cared for the people he hurt even when he couldn't show it. If Master were to find out he would be dead. Master didn't need someone weak in his organization and caring is a weakness.

Sherlock pushed the thought of the victims and their families away as he entered the place where once the community center had been. The ruins of the building were still there and a giant hole split the ground. Most of the scene was separated by a barrier tape, behind which soldiers were busy cleaning up. First the bodies (nearly done) and then the pieces of bricks, stones and rubble which were left of the building. Around the scene were flowers and candles, pictures of the victims and shields with the question 'WHY?'

It was worse than Sherlock had thought. Of course he had thought about the best way to destroy the heart of the city but it was nothing he had wanted to do. He had no choice and seeing the result of his work, work he was also really good at, it made him want to disappear. But there was something that kept him alive, his will to survive. To survive he had to do things like this. He had to hurt people. So maybe it was better to stop caring or it would eat him alive.

Sherlock turned around, a hard look on his face. He would never ever again head doubts about his work for Master. He would never ever again count the lives that vanished from this planet because of his work and he would never ever in his life look back at the people who were hurt and left behind. He would become Master's perfect little soldier. With that Sherlock returned to his life with Master, the only life he knew.

* * *

John Watson's first mission was a recover and rebuild mission. This meant help to recover the bodies of the last terror attack. He was a medicine student of 21 years and was shocked about the cruelty the scene screamed out. His next task would be to identify the victims, not his favorite kind of work but it would help the family members.

As John looked up from the last body they had managed to find before the place would be cleaned up, he saw a teenager, maybe fourteen or fifteen years old, standing at the street corner looking around. That was nothing special; but the look in his face was. Guilt, deep bleeding guilt that was eating him alive. John was not sure how fare he could walk to the boy but before he could reach him, the boy's expression changed, as if he had just then thrown away his being, his soul and all of his feelings, and walked away.

John had never seen something so sad. The boy was lost. He could do nothing to help him or change the world the boy must be living in. With a heavy heart John returned to his work.


	4. The boy gets hurt

Four years later Sherlock had become an even better criminal, he didn't fear punishment anymore. He always gave his best and more. There was no reason Master could criticize his work.

He was given more freedom, could go wherever he wanted if it did not impact his work negatively. Most of the time he was his own master. He still got his work from Master although he was allowed to do his own little projects. Master trusted him.

Right now Sherlock had been left alone at their headquarters making decisions only Master and he were entitled to. He was sitting in a meeting with the head of an oil company to discuss the further working conditions. The boy who had once felt guilt was long gone.

* * *

Sherlock had become what Moriarty had dreamed off. His perfect creation, someone he could trust his life work with. When he thought back to the first few years, with more punishments than would have been necessary, with locks on the doors and days in chains, Moriarty had to smile. His creation had made a fantastic development. He had had some doubts around the time Sherlock was a teenager but he knew that showing him his work would either destroy him or make him better than before. And he was right because the boy who now came back and sat in the car had changed. The last remainder of human feelings had disappeared.

Moriarty now had new things to occupy himself with. There was a mole in his organization. The reason he had left their headquarters in the first place was to find out who it was and kill him or her, the family, friends, supporter and everyone who knew it. A lot of people to kill and the last one to die would be the mole after he or she had watched the death (painful) of all the people that meant something to him or her.

Sherlock was in charge of the daily business, he had long been able to do it and he trusted the boy's decisions. The call that changed everything came only a few minutes after he had caught the mole. Their headquarter were under attack.

Moriarty was angry and had to change his plans. The mole could live until he found out what had happened to his base, his men and his creation. Not that he cared but it had been hard work to build him and his organization. It would be unpleasant it he had to start again and maybe a bit of waiting was good for the mole, to understand what would happen next.

* * *

The hospital staff was not happy to get a terrorist in the A&E but what can you do when soldiers and government agents storm into your building with a badly injured man and tell you to save him. They would need him for a testimony against some big crime boss. Nothing really has a meaning when your job is to keep people alive and healthy no matter who they are or what they did.

The man who looked like a boy when you looked closely bud had just jumped into adulthood, had internal bleeding, seventeen broken bones, ribs, finger, arm, foot and a crack to the head, the latter being the reason for the swelling in his brain which had led to a coma. The patient hadn't woken for two days now.

The staff was already stressed out from the daily controls and the identity check at the patient's room. There was also no name for the patient; he was just a John Doe. That made more than one nurse sad. But if the man was a criminal he had to have a record and the finger prints and DNA sample they had taken the day before would provide them with his identity very soon. Not that a record would change the staff's behavior. To them he was a patient and no government official could tell them how to treat him.

* * *

The call came at 3 a.m. but Mycroft Holmes was still awake, working. It was his trustworthy assistant Anthea who called him with the message he had been waiting for fifteen years for.

"Sir, we found him." Mycroft catching up in seconds knew there was only one person missing at the time who had to do with him and this was his baby brother. Maybe it had been wrong to use his position to find him but this was all he can do to make the guilty voice in his head stop. He had let go of his brother's hand in the book shop all these years ago. Something he could never forgive himself for.

"Where is he?" Was all he was able to ask. After Anthea told him where, Mycroft stood up, took his bag and climbed into the waiting car. She had already organized everything, the flight, his traveling on the ground, got him names and numbers of people he could call and use or ask for help. She was just perfect.

Mycroft Holmes who never felt fear was afraid of what he would find. His only information was that his brother was in a hospital, recovering from serious injuries. What he had done all this years, where he had been or who had taken him where probably in the file Anthea had sent over as the plane left the ground. A bit of reading during the flight was good, it would pass time.

* * *

As Sherlock opened his eyes he felt pain, his head hurt as if someone had cracked his skull. Outside the window he saw the night sky and was glad for the late or maybe early hour of the day. He had time to think. He was in a hospital, connected to more machines than seemed healthy. The last thing he could remember was the alarm system, they were attacked and then nothing.

Sherlock couldn't remember how he got hurt or who brought him to the hospital. The only thing he was sure of is he had to leave before someone found him awake.

The thing with being in a hospital is that most of the times there was a good reason for it, like being injured. Which meant Sherlock couldn't just walk out after he had located his injuries. It meant he had to wait for help. He closed his eyes again; playing the sleeping patient was easier than acting as a victim or a someone suffering from amnesia. That would be his next option after the coma would stop working.

* * *

Moriarty had hacked himself into the hospital security and thanks to the detail of every patient it was easy for him to not only find Sherlock but also make out the exact moment he woke. It was much easier to transport someone who was awake. Through the file Moriarty knew they had taken a DNA sample and fingerprints to identify his creation, he had to act soon before someone found out who Sherlock really was. This boy is mine, Moriarty felt a possessiveness he had never felt before. No one would take his creation from him.

He already had more than one plan how to get Sherlock out of the hospital to someplace better, secure and under his control. Moriarty sent his men inside in the middle of the night when the security guard he owned had his shift and the nurse he had blackmailed had drugged the soldier who was guarding Sherlock.

Sherlock for his part didn't need an explanation as five strong man entered his room. He was ready to leave the second he woke. They walked to his bed, disconnected all the machines, ignoring the alarm sounds like the nurse who had let the alarms to the room go silent, and lifted Sherlock onto a gurney. Sherlock was used to a certain degree of pain and had survived bad situations in the past, but the pain he was feeling now, especially after the machines had been disconnected, was bad. But showing pain was a weakness, so he tried to be strong and not show it. Glade to be outside of the hospital, he accepted the offered help without feeling his pride hurt but happy to know Master would come to save him. When needed.

* * *

When Mycroft arrived only a few hours after the 'rescue mission' he felt his heart break. Not only was his brother alive, but he had lost him again. He was too late, again. Someone, probably the same kidnapper had taken his brother away.

Mycroft found the responsible people in the hospital staff but it didn't change the fact that he was too late. The only thing that he got was a picture of a young man, skinny with sharp cheek bones and black curls, that and a new lead. The base where Sherlock had been found.


	5. The boy slips away

There are a few advantages if you have your own little department within the government. For example you have your private little army; well let's call it special unit. Good and trustworthy people who have worked for you long enough to know how the world and their job work.

Mycroft sent for his men and gave the order to investigate the criminal organization that had its headquarters at the base his brother had been found. Collecting information was one of the most important things you have to do in this world. Information was power and Mycroft needed power. He had already collected enough information for them to read together with his brother's picture and the order to find him and, whatever he did, they were not to harm him.

"Sir?" One of his team members called for him. Young man, short. John Watson, newest member of his team, doctor, good man.

"Yes, Captain what can I do for you?" He wasn't sure he liked it when someone asked a question.

"I know this person; I think I met him a few years ago. I would be sure if I could see his eyes but I think this is the boy I saw at the scene of a terror attack." John was always good with faces and he had never forgotten the boy who had shattered his soul while John was watching. Now everyone in the meeting room was staring at him with open mouths, including their boss.

"What? Say that again. You know him?" The look on his boss' face was a bit insane but John answered anyway.

"Not know, Sir, I saw him years ago. Never talked to him." And so he told his team where they had 'met', what the boy had done, described the boy himself and everything else John could recall. In the end it was nothing new. They knew that the criminal organization they were up against offered their work to others, like terror groups. His boss looked a bit disappointed. Not directly at him but in general.

"Who is he and why is he important to you?" Asking such a private question was risky but John had always liked danger and he thought he had the right to know.

"My baby brother. He was kidnapped when he was four years old. I never stopped looking and now I have found him." On their boss's face, the iceman who only let anger or disappointment sometimes slip through his mask looked sad and guilty. The room went deadly quiet. Now they knew what kind of mission this was going to be. Not destruction, but rescue.

* * *

Sherlock was alone in his room, not his room, but a private room in one of Master's hospitals. He had told Sherlock it could come in handy to have your own army of doctors. The empty room gave him a bit of security. He was sure there were cameras somewhere in the room but at least no one would hear him moan when he moved and the pain was too much. A sign of weakness.

He still couldn't remember what had happened after the alarm system had started off and Sherlock feared Master would punish him for forgetting. It would be the first punishment in years, he swallowed hart at the thought.

Sherlock had to get better and show Master that he could do everything for him. There was very little he would not do to please him. Thinking about it he couldn't remember the last time he had wastes a single second to consider an alternative to the one which would bring the highest collateral damage, the highest body count, the biggest destruction to the area, the most fear and hate, not to mention never stopping to think twice about the people involved.

Alone in his hospital bed Sherlock felt the long forgotten pain in his stomach. He was a monster, a highly functional monster, trained to do evil. At that thought Sherlock had to vomit over the edge of his bed. As the nurses came in to help and clean him he just blamed his head injury for it.

After they had left Sherlock collected his thoughts and banished every bit of sentiment he could still find in the cellar dungeons of his mind palace. A technic he had learned from Master to sort his knowledge and use it better than normal people. That he can also hide thing, he had to teach himself. The only thing that let him go further was this dungeon where he could hide everything Master did not approve of, like feelings and emotions but also memories Sherlock wanted to forget but needed like the punishments.

* * *

It was an easy job for John to play the nice doctor who was just a soldier because he had no choice. The village he was stationed at was easily big enough to call itself a town. He was here to collect information and for that reason he was working as a doctor at the military base close by. The village people didn't trust him at first but after he had treated nearly everyone or one of their family members once he got closer to his main purpose. Not that helping the people was a waste of time. Many needed the help and couldn't pay for it in the nearby hospital. They had no more than a few rooms and a half broken room for the surgical procedures.

And after gaining their trust he also got information from them without them knowing they were giving it. About the people who visited the area, the local people, different power holders and the mysterious man who lead them all. It took John weeks to get a confirmation of the mere existence of that man. But there was nothing more, just his name: Moriarty. That was all John could get after nearly a month of work.

Disappointed in himself he left the base for an afternoon walk. Not the safe thing to do in this neck of the woods but who would stop him?

* * *

_The smell of old and new books was around him and he felt as if he was in paradise. A shadowed figure walked beside him holding his small (child's hand). The figure turned to him._

_"Don't let go off my hand or you will be lost." The voice was faint and sounded far away._

_The books around him called his name and in a moment of distraction he let go of the hand and walked around his paradise._

_As he turned around there was only darkness behind him. The figure, the other shadows and the store were gone. Looking in front of him the same. Everything was gone._

_He was alone in the darkness calling a name and for help._

* * *

"Myc…" Sherlock nearly jumped out of the bed the next second forgetting the name in his mind. His breathing was fast and he had to hold himself together by hugging his chest with his arms. He closed his eyes and started to control his breathing willing it back to a normal rate.

This dream was somehow horrible and beautiful at the same time. Sherlock couldn't explain it but, as bad as the darkness was, the shadow hand always gave him a feeling of safety and home. Something he never really felt or understood. He had had that dream since he had woken from his coma but he pushed all thoughts about it away. Things like strange dreams are nothing you can allow yourself around Master.

As Sherlock calmed down he got up and got dressed. Today was the first day he was allowed to leave the hospital. And he wanted to use this chance to walk to their home, not that it was called home. It was just the place they were staying in until they would find a new place to live. Sherlock was sure Master had already a few places in mind and would test him be letting him choose.

* * *

The walk was more exhausting than Sherlock had thought but it was a good kind of exhausting after all the weeks in hospital. He was still not 100% back to his old form but he was slowly getting there.

He liked this village. With Master he had lived in many different countries, sometimes in big cities, sometimes in the middle of nowhere. But this little village had been his home for two years. He likes the climate, the surroundings and even the people didn't bother him.

As he walked over to the main street directing his steps towards his home he saw a soldier. Soldiers were supposed to be here but not alone or at that time of day. They should be at their base, walking around in big frightening groups or just staying away in the evening. To his surprise the soldier changed his direction after he spotted Sherlock. Sherlock did not think to run. In his condition he had no chance.

Sherlock waited until the soldier stopped in front of him, eyeing him from head to toe.

"Sherlock Holmes?" The soldier asked with a soft smile on his face.

He must have misheard for how did this soldier now his first name? Never mind he had never even heard of the last name before. Thinking about it he was never called by his last name. Sherlock had never needed a last name and now he couldn't remember having one. But everyone has a last name, why not him? And who was the soldier?


	6. The boy meets the soldier

John realized he was right about the identity of the man in front of him even when the man himself was confused and didn't know it. He was also right about the fact that he had seen him before. This man whose eyes had become fearful a second after he had said his name was Sherlock Holmes still alive after 15 years.

"Sherlock, my name is John, John Watson. Nice to meet you." John held his hand out to shake it but Sherlock didn't move. Shocked. 'Good let's see how we get him out of this.'

"Sherlock you don't look too good. How about we sit down a minute?" John took Sherlock's arm, not really pulling but leading the way to a low wall, both sitting down. "Take a deep breath for me." Sherlock did so. "Very good."

Sherlock's head turned to look at John again. His eyes were searching for something familiar to explain why someone knew his name. Not finding what he was looking for John could watch how a mask slipped onto his face a bit like his big brother. John had to smile a sad smile. Both of the brothers wore masks most of the time and for him, always  an open book, it didn't feel healthy.

"Who are you and why are you suddenly sad?" A bit unsecure about the situation Sherlock added: "Did I do something wrong?" Sherlock didn't understand sadness even if this is what he felt often but it always got quickly buried before surfacing and causing a punishment. But John didn't know that.

"It might sound a bit strange but I am sad because of you. Because someone hurt you and that can't be changed anymore." John was happy about the fact that Sherlock was talking to him at all and not running away. By god he had no reason.

"Don't worry about that, my head is better now and my broken bones were fixed. It will heal." Sherlock tried to soothe him, the boy wasn't totally lost like some of John's colleagues thought.

"I don't mean that kind of hurt. It is probably the craziest thing you will ever hear but you don't belong here. Someone took you when you were a child. A small child. I don't think you even remember being someplace else. And that's what makes me sad. That someone took you from your home and family and forced you to live a life you were never supposed to have." John saw disbelieve in Sherlock's eyes and the wall he had built around his heart to protect himself went up again.

"Yes, sure I was kidnapped as a child... Sorry to disappoint you, but I was always with Master, no one took me." John lifted an eyebrow at the word 'master'.

"So you think it's normal to have to call your guardian 'Master'?" Sherlock hid his feelings about this question well but his thinking process was clearly visible. John carried on. "Where are your parents? You know you must have parents." Sherlock stood up, to leave.

"Master is my family. I don't need parents." He had had enough of this conversation, the soldier's words had hit him deep inside where all the things he wasn't allowed to think about were hidden. He turned to leave. The soldier stayed sitting on that wall.

"What about your brother?" Sherlock stopped but didn't look back. "He has been looking for you for fifteen years. Never gave up hope. Always thought he would one day find you again." Seeing that this worked, the soldier continued. "He told me how you got lost. You were together in a book shop and he was holding your hand. You were only four and he told you not to let go of his hand. But somehow you two got separated and he couldn't find you anymore." Sherlock turned back to the soldier who had just described the dream he had had for the last weeks but he had though it had been only a dream. A dream he wasn't supposed to have.

"Whatever, I need to go back." Sherlock couldn't think about it now. He had to sort out the information and… he stopped his thinking 'why should he believe what the soldier said, just because he knew Sherlock's name? No he had to go back or he would be punished for being late. His injuries weren't an excuse anymore'.

"Do you think the life you are living is a good one?" The soldier spoke again. "Do you really think helping bad people to do bad things better is a good line of work?" The soldier knew how to push every weak spot Sherlock had. "I saw you all those years ago at the scene of that terror act. I think you were the one who gave that human piece of trash the ability to destroy the hope of a whole city. Do you even remember that day? The day you threw away your heart? I remember it. I saw how you locked it away because it hurt you." Sherlock couldn't say a thing. Of cause he remembered it. The last time he had really felt something hurt.

"But this is not your fault. That someone who took you made you do it. You just tried to survive. Your 'Master' isn't the man you should run to. Think about the things you felt that day, and every day before you gave up on those feelings because they hurt too much. You are smart. You will figure it out. I will not take you with me. I would change nothing. You have to make the choice yourself." John (the soldier had become 'John' before he knew it) stood up and walked back toward his base without turning around. Leaving Sherlock there, alone. Doubting his whole life.

* * *

As John left the confused Sherlock alone he felt a bit worried but he knew he couldn't just take the boy with him. Sherlock had to choose it by himself, he had to understand the situation he was in and also understand that there are people who were willing to help him, that there still was a family waiting for him. That was all John could and would do.

The first thing he did was knock on his boss' door. Mycroft Holmes was staying here close to his brother's assumed whereabouts. This was no surprise after he had lost Sherlock again. Apparently he was able to do most of his work without being in London or he made it work somehow.

Like John had feared, his boss was not only angry at him but furious because he had let Sherlock go. It took him a good twenty minutes to calm him down and explaining that taking Sherlock would be just another kidnapping. He had to make the choice to come back. John was sure it wouldn't take long for the boy to overthink his situation and he hoped that he would make the right decision.


	7. The boy has doubts

The whole way home Sherlock thought about John's word. He was surprised as he realized that he not only had trusted John but was also sure he had told him the truth. He was very good in telling when someone was lying. It was part of the job and he had learned it the hard way through Master and his tests. The consequences were always unpleasant. But John said the truth or at least he thought it was the truth. Big difference.

He had imagined the fact that he must somewhere have a father and mother, he had ignored that he apparently also had a brother.  Of course he must have parents somewhere but he never thought about it. Most of the people he lived and worked with everyday never talked about family or parents or home. It wouldn't have been appropriate around Master to even approach such a topic.

Another thing was the fact that John had let him go. It had looked like he had the order to find him and bring him 'home' to his brother who ever that was. Sounded like he worked for the government or something like that. Who else had his own men to search for a missing brother? But John let him decide, Sherlock wasn't used to being allowed to decide anything about his life. It was Master who made the decisions like where to live, what Sherlock's work was and all these things. Of cause Sherlock was allowed to work on his own without Master saying something but that was because Sherlock was good at his job.

Sherlock couldn't really remember his childhood. The only thing that was left behind in his memory were the consequences for not being perfect and not listening. The punishments and he knew Master enjoyed them at least partly. That made him shiver.

John had described his dream. Had John spied on him while he was in hospital and had he talked in his sleep? No, Master made sure no one could visit him and he wasn't the type to babble in his sleep. But the book shop and the hand. Had it really been his brother who had held it and why did he let go of him? Didn't he know that small children were unpredictable? So was Master his caretaker now or his kidnapper? Was he both or neither?

Sherlock still thinking hard entered the house on autopilot. He survived dinner (with Master) without a problem. Master was busy with planning something. Better not to interrupt him. Sherlock went to bed still confused but not any longer doubting John's words. John had told the truth and Sherlock shouldn't be here. He should be somewhere else with a loving family (he didn't know how that felt but it belonged to a life that should be his) and a home which wasn't threatened with punishments. A home that would make him feel safe. He fell asleep tired of all the new thoughts in his head and slipping into a dream with a guiding hand and the warm feeling of being loved.

* * *

During breakfast the next morning Sherlock stopped eating, something what he was trained not to do and that was the point. He realized he was trained to be Master's perfect little soldier, his creation. He was trained to do the things the way Master wanted them without having to control him because he was what Master had made him. His toy. For the first time in years Sherlock became angry.

"Why did you stop eating?" Master's words pulled him out of this mind and with an angry look in his eyes he turned to Master, who saw the change but didn't know the reason, yet.

"Did you kidnap me when I was a child? Did you steal me away from my family? And did you take away the chance of a life without being a monster from me?" Sherlock's voice grew louder with every word and he didn't care about a punishment for not eating or shouting or asking questions he wasn't supposed to be asking. Sherlock wanted for the first time in his life (at least for the parts he still remembered) to hear the truth from Master.

Master's eyes went small calculating and mad as if Sherlock had just destroyed something with his words. "Why do you think that?" The question was asked in a quiet and low voice. Sherlock could feel the danger but ignored his survival instinct. He needed the truth whatever it would cost.

"Oh maybe because I can remember my brother or maybe the fact that I don't have parents, a last name or even a birthday. How about that the way you have treated me my whole life was only to make me your pawn. You made me your toy that would work because of fear of punishment. Or maybe the fact that you never let me choose something regarding my life. Choose whatever reason you want, there are enough." The respect he usually talked with to Master, no Moriarty was gone lost in anger and desperation. He would probably die here and now for that but at least he would get the truth for the first time in his life.

To Sherlock's surprise Moriarty let out a deep sigh before saying something. "I have always wondered when you would find out but I never thought you would remember. I took you before your brain should have been able to save long term information and after your training you seemed to function the way I wanted you to." Sherlock's mouth dropped, Moriarty had just admitted to what he had done. What he had done to Sherlock and without feeling remorse or anything that could be describes as guilt. "Don't look at me like an idiot, you are smart and talented. That is the reason I chose you. You were perfect." Sherlock had to close his mouth again, speechless with hate for that man. "Now you have to decide, will you keeping on working for me, the way I like it, or would you prefer to be disposed of? You are allowed to choose, make the decision that will decide if you have a future or not. Take your time." Moriarty stood up. He made a call and two men appeared to bring Sherlock to his room, not too ruff but holding him firmly.

The sound of the locked door triggered another memory: the first day with Master and little Sherlock scared for life and captured without a way of escaping. Sherlock understood it now, he didn't belong here, he had to leave before Moriarty would come back and kill him. There was no illusion as to what his destiny would be if he stayed.

* * *

Sherlock, even if not at his best, was able to leave the house without getting caught, one of the many benefits of having been the boss' right hand for years. No one questioned you or what you were doing. Picking a lock was the easiest part. He wondered why Moriarty let him escape so easily but it was probably because he thought Sherlock had no place to go. But he was wrong. So wrong because Sherlock knew a place where not only he would be welcomed but also meet the people who were his family and had been looking for him for a very long time.

The only thing Sherlock had to do was find John. Breaking into a military base was a very easy thing to do when you had learned how to do it with seven. The only problem would be to find John among all these soldiers. But he was confident he could walk in the shadows until he had found him. Like all his life, living in the shadows. Being a shadow.


	8. The boy can go home

John had a very long and tiring talk with his boss and an even more exhausting nightshift and then a fitful night of sleep because he was worrying about Sherlock. As he woke up and tried to sort his mind for the day he felt that something was wrong. He wasn't alone in his room. Finding his weapon under his cushion he turned around as fast as he could and aimed at the intruder. He stopped the second he saw who it was.

Sherlock Holmes was sleeping all rolled up on his chair in the corner, dark rings under his eyes and a distressed face even in his sleep. John took his weapon down and observed the boy. When he finally decided to get up Sherlock woke to the noise of John's blanket moving. John had to smile at the confused look in his eyes.

"Good morning sleepy head." Sherlock focused on him, not uttering a single word. "If you want you can sleep a bit more in the bed, you look like you need it." For that he at least got a head shake.

"Would you like to meet your brother or just stay here for a while?" John offered.

"Stay." Sherlock whispered. He pulled his legs even closer to his chest and hugged them as if he feared he would fall apart otherwise.

"I will get us breakfast and tea, okay?" Sherlock nodded and as John came back with tea and toast he hadn't move from his place on the chair.

* * *

Sherlock was tired, he hadn't slept well the night before but the thing he was feeling while waiting for John to get breakfast was a different kind of exhaustion. All he wanted to do was sleep and forget or stop thinking. Not sure which one was easier.

He had found John's room very easily. As he was alone in it, Sherlock took the liberty to let himself in and watch him sleep. The chair was not really comfortable but he had slept in far worse places. John's presence was comforting and his eyes fell closed bringing him back to his dream.

When he was woken by the noise of another person moving he was at first confused as to where he was and then how he could have fallen asleep in a stranger's room. Although he seemed to trust John more than anyone before in his life. Finding it very unsettling that he was giving his freedom and safety to a man he had met only once (twice if you counted the meeting they had had a few years back) in his life.

While John got tea and breakfast Sherlock had to think about his future, he had cut his bond with Moriarty and was now alone. Moriarty would never let him go, he knew too much. He could destroy his work and everything that he had ever created. And Sherlock had been Sherlock part of these things. He would destroy himself. He remembered one of the first sentence Moriarty had ever said to him (the memories were coming back slowly): that he would destroy Sherlock in order to rebuild him. Maybe he had to destroy himself so that he could be free again. Destroy and rebuild. But as what? Who was Sherlock without his work for Moriarty? He was nothing but a child that had learned nothing except how to destroy and hurt and kill. 

That's what Sherlock was, what Moriarty had made out of him. Caught by that thought he nearly missed that John was back. He pushed a hot tea cup into his hand and sat down on the bed, as Sherlock was occupying the only chair in the room.

"Drink your tea before it gets cold. It tastes better warm." Listening to John's words Sherlock lifted his cup to his lips and let the hot liquid flow into his body warming him up. After what felt like hours of sitting in a comfortable silence Sherlock spoke up for the first time.

"I would like to see proof of my identity and meet my brother. But I should tell you that Moriarty won't be happy when he finds out I ran away and his version of 'consequences' are always a bit deadly, so if you don't mind I would also like to ask for your protection." Seeing the fear in Sherlock's eyes made the whole situation a lot more real but still he was trying to sound strong and like an adult.

"Of course you will get both, and your brother and me as your bodyguard." John stood up, opened the door and Sherlock followed him into the base to meet his 'brother'. John could feel the nervous force that followed him all the way. Sherlock had lost his identity, his home and the only family he had known all in one day. Now he had a last name and a brother but also an enemy, a dangerous one. Not a life you wished on someone who had lived as a prisoner under his abuser.

As they arrived in front of his boss' office,  John checked with a last look at Sherlock how ready he was for the meeting. 'Not really ready' would be the answer but he knocked and opened the door anyway.

* * *

Mycroft had moved his workplace to this base, the closest point to his brother he could find. It had been surprisingly easy to move his office and the few meetings he had to attend could be covered via video conferences and phone calls. He was going to leave this place only together with his brother.

Someone knocked at the door, he called them in and his heart nearly stopped as he saw his visitor.  There he was. His little brother. Shaken and nervous, tired and jumpy. All at the same time. They looked each other in the eyes but  before something could happen Captain Watson spoke up.

"Sherlock this is Mycroft Holmes, your brother, Mr. Holmes here is your brother. Like I promised, he came to me on his own." Both looked at him for a second before turning back to the brother they hadn't seen with their own eyes for fifteen years. And to the surprise of the whole room the first one who spoke was Sherlock.

"Myc?" The old childish nickname Sherlock had given him when he had been too small to say his name properly caused tears to form in Mycroft's eyes. John smiled and wanted to leave the room to give them a bit of privacy as a hand caught at his sleeve and held him back.

"You said you would protect me. Don't leave me alone. Please." Sherlock could count the times he had used the word please and actually meant it on one hand but now he really meant it. He didn't feel safe. Moriarty could come back and he only trusted John. He had only just met Mycroft and wasn't able to place him in his mind as his brother but John. John was good, he needed John. John he would protect him.

After a look in Sherlock's eyes and one over to Mycroft John stayed. But he stood a bit in the background. During that short conversation Mycroft had come out of his shock and he now walked around his desk and held out a hand for Sherlock to shake. This time Sherlock moved and answered the greeting.

Both felt it. Sherlock remembered the safe feeling in his dreams, the feeling of being protected. Mycroft felt the hand that had slipped away and all the time he had waited to be able to hold it again. With only a second hesitation he pulled Sherlock closer and wrapped him into a one-arm hug. The other one did not let go of his hand. Both Holmes brothers let the tears they had kept inside for such a long time fall.

* * *

What followed were long days and nights with many hours of talking. John stayed with Sherlock the whole time. And most of the times Mycroft was there as well. In the beginning Sherlock didn't want to talk or couldn't. They weren't sure which it was but as they moved away from topics such as what his job was, what Moriarty had made him do, what Moriarty had taught him and other similar questions, and move on to things like, which locations were used, the names of groups and organizations that used Moriarty's Network and future plans of terror acts they could still stop, Sherlock talked. It was very helpful to have a genius as a witness. They hadn't and wouldn't have found but a thousandth of the information he gave them.

But Sherlock was afraid of Moriarty coming to get him and he wasn't ready to talk about himself. He liked talking to his brother and John but kept a great distance between him and other people.

The day the unavoidable happened, John was glad to be the one who was closest to Sherlock. They were having a walk through the village getting Sherlock to open up a bit with other people and thanks to John (the doctor) the people talked to him.  Of course they were never alone. A few other soldiers had come with them. Sherlock stayed close to John all the time.

Now that he was no longer the right hand of a powerful man, with big powers himself, he was just a nine-teen year old boy. Shy and afraid of the world.

The first thing John noticed was Sherlock becoming white as a sheet. After that the world suddenly seemed to become empty. The street which had been full with life and people was now empty and dead. The only ones left were the soldiers, Sherlock and John. Moriarty stepped out of black car which had come down the street. John, who had never seen the man, was not impressed, but Sherlock was shaking. He was visibly terrorized.

The soldiers pulled their guns and aimed at Moriarty. "I wouldn't do that if I were you. The whole street is covered with bombs. I have my own little army of snipers pointing at all of you and I'm just here to talk to Sherlock. Right Sherlock? You will talk to me now. Because who knows when one of the snipers gets bored and decides to shoot someone." An evil smile appeared on the mad man's face."

"He can't talk to you but you can leave." John shouted over to Moriarty. Getting the attention of an insane criminal master mind was not the best way to start the morning but better than letting Sherlock drown in that situation.

"And who are you to decide what my boy can do?" He asked with a sneering voice that let the whole street freeze over and let the word 'danger' get a whole new meaning.

But John wasn't afraid of the coward in front of him who took little children and hurt them long enough until they would do everything for him just to avoid being hurt again. Having the image of that boy who had looked away secure in his heart and in his mind John answered. "Right now? I am the one standing between you and Sherlock. He is not yours, he does not belong to anybody. He is his own and you have no right to hurt him further. Do you understand this? Was I clear enough?"

Before Moriarty could say something Sherlock woke up from his shocked state. "I will never ever go with you again. Whatever you want from me, I am not interested and I don't care what you can offer me. You had me long enough to play with. I will stay with my brother, try to get my memories of him back. You took me from him, you hurt him too. I don't like hurting people like you. It was wrong to take me. You made a mistake with me. I told them everything I know and will help them to destroy your work." Taking a deep breath Sherlock continued. "You once told me you would have to destroy me first in order to create something big. Thanks for that, it is probably the only useful thing I learned from you. I destroyed myself and you with me so that I can be reborn without being the monster you made me to." Sherlock breathed heavily and had spoken more in the last minute then in the last days and weeks together. Moriarty's face was showing nothing but blind hatred.

"We will see about that. Don't forget, Sherlock: I made you, I am the only one with the ability to destroy you. And I will" With that he got into the car and drove away. Not a second too soon. Because the backup arrived to secure Moriarty's snipers, bombs and employees.

At that point Sherlock broke down crying like a little child and that was the reason John was thankful to be the one next to the boy. He caught him before he could fall to the ground and held him tight in his arms, rocking him until the last tear was shed and the last sob had died down in his throat.

There was still a very real threat in the air but Sherlock was finally free. He had cut the  ropes binding him to Moriarty by himself. He had a long way to go but he was not alone or afraid anymore. John and Mycroft were by his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. It was a long story but surprise it´s not over. I will wright a sequel, a bit patient please. But I promise it will be ready soon. My beta is looking forward for it too. So I will start it very soon. ^^
> 
> Thanks to you Sandra for your hard work with my many mistakes.


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